


Where the silence is, there shall I take my rest

by CardboardMoose



Series: The works of our hands [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-08
Updated: 2011-04-08
Packaged: 2017-10-17 19:02:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/180187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CardboardMoose/pseuds/CardboardMoose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the bestowing of gifts, we mark the recipient as one worthy of our favour. Equius fears he lacks such worth; Gamzee knows he is wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Where the silence is, there shall I take my rest

"Stay still, babe."

He tries. He tries, but it's hard not to move, to lean into Gamzee's fingers on his jaw, to shiver at the ghost of his breath across his brow. Kneeling as he is, hands upon the chair which Gamzee straddles (backwards, he does so many things in such strange ways, and Equius cannot fail to be fascinated with this violation of order) for balance, his every muscle cries out for movement, but he will allow himself no such indulgence. No such weakness. He will not disturb this moment.

This ritual is a gift. Equius has been hesitant to call himself Gamzee's matesprit, to presume to hold such a place in his vascular propulsion organ, but the paint that Gamzee is currently spreading gently across his cheekbones is, as the highblood puts it, to "put those motherfucking fears to rest, okay?"

It is very much okay.

It is, in fact, so okay that Equius finds himself unable adequately to express _how_ okay it is. Not only does Gamzee desire him as his matesprit, but he is _claiming_ him as his own. The High Subjugglators, he has learned - "those wicked cool motherfuckers" - have a system of painted designs fit for those with whom they find themselves quadrantally involved. Though he cannot help but wonder how one would persuade one's kismesis to wear such facepaint, the idea of being so marked fills him with a fierce joy - this is the way he can shout to the rafters of the world, "Gamzee Makara calls me his, and I am proud."

The others, he knows, will stare. Karkat will sneer and Nepeta will giggle and Vriska will roll her eyes and he will, he suspects, not care in the slightest. Let them stare. Let them do whatsoever they wish, because life has granted him a precious thing he is unworthy of and he will not hide it.

There is a mirror, propped against the legs of Gamzee's chair, and when the highblood gently - so gently, Equius had not known such gentleness until this matespritship came into his world, and it fills him with wonder - tilts his head down to work on his forehead, Equius meets his own gaze in its glass. He had, necessarily, removed his glasses for this exercise, and the sight of his own eyes, so often hidden, is almost enough to distract him from the creation taking shape across his skin. Dark grey upon white, every detail executed with focused precision (for Gamzee could be surprisingly single-minded, when prompted), the markings of the Subjugglators are as striking as they are beautiful.

Gamzee is smiling slightly, in his familiar faraway manner, though his brows are tight with concentration. The design is complex, the contour of each line a thousand words of commitment and understanding that need not be voiced aloud. The side of his hand rests against Equius' cheek for control as he sweeps the brush down the bridge of his nose.

"Hey, close your eyes."

Equius does so, and feels the strange softness of the brush over one eyelid, then the other. He waits a moment before opening them again, savouring the trust the gesture implies. Trolls are not accustomed to performing any action that would give another the opportunity to attack them, a tendency which only gets stronger the higher the blood in their veins. In theory, Equius should be fighting against every instinct he has, but in truth nothing feels more natural than putting himself in this position. His life is no longer his own to guard.

Gamzee pauses, surveying his handiwork with a critical eye. The brush moves again - a brief line here, a curl there - and, finally, is still. Equius realises he's breathing hard, the harsh sound breaking the stillness of the room. Gamzee smiles, then - his true smile, broad and beautiful, crinkling the corners of his eyes and doing strange things to Equius' stomach.

"Motherfucker..." he breathes, almost reverentially, one thumb slowly tracing a line down Equius' face, skin moving over newly-dry paint. Equius moves, at last, covering the hand with his own. He is trembling slightly.

"Highblood, _Gamzee_ , I cannot...I am at a loss for words. If I could but...express how much I appreciate this gesture, unworthy as I am of such attention, I--"

He is silenced by Gamzee's lips upon his own, and lets the silence fall about them, closing his eyes once more. They part, after a time, and Gamzee takes his face in both hands.

"You are motherfucking worthy, babe, I don't want to be hearing any more of this bullshit. You got the wicked paints all up on your face now, and that means that I am as red for you as a motherfucker can be, and _that_ means that you fucking deserve all those flushed feelings I got up inside me."

His tone is soft but brooks no argument, and Equius is content to let it lie. For now, perhaps - with the marks of this acceptance fresh upon him, with his matesprit's hands on his skin, in this perfect moment - he can believe that he is worthy.


End file.
